Yesterday I Died
by Anera527
Summary: Harry Potter is out for revenge- but will he be able to go through with it?


"_**Yesterday I Died"**_

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

_~And finding answers_

_Is forgetting all of the questions we call home_

_Passing the graves of the unknown_

_As reason clouds my eyes, with splendor fading_

_Illusions of the sunlight_

_And the reflections of a lie will keep me waiting_

_Love gone for so long~_

_ ~Shattered~ Trading Yesterday_

The wall was what he found most interesting. Of course, considering his options of either looking at the wall, the floor, or the bed, he picked the wall, and that was his activity during the day, when he wasn't screaming under the dementors' influence, at least. All his concentration was placed upon that one task- in his damaged mind, Harry told himself that he _must _look at the wall, he must count every crack etched into the heavy grey stone that was his prison.

And what a prison it was. Azkaban was Hell on Earth, no doubt about that. It was for the condemned to be sent, rotting away in their own despair and horror. It was where they were sent to die- none ever escaped the great bleak walls of Azkaban's Prison, and none thought that any prisoner would ever manage to find their way out.

So Harry waited. He waited for the opportunity to do just that, knowing that his godfather had escaped almost seven years before. He smiled to himself, a twisted, manic smile that would have served to frighten any man. He was waiting, he was patient- he knew that he would get out soon, and by his own will and power. Normally Azkaban sapped all power from a witch or wizard, suppressing all their own magic and feeding it to the demetors- but not so with Harry. No, he still kept some of his magic, both by his enormous power, and through his link to Voldemort. He used his worst enemy's power in magic to keep some of his own.

The irony of that made him laugh sometimes, a crazed, full-throated laugh that served to release some of his desperate fury and feelings of betrayal. At times he laughed so much his throat bled. But then sometimes he screamed, and cried, and cursed, and mainly just stared at that wall, that damnable wall that served as his only sense of normalcy.

Harry was insane, there was no fooling himself. How could one not be insane after spending three years here in this wretched cesspool? Of course, he wondered if thinking yourself insane _actually_ meant you weren't, but this line of thinking just served to confuse him, so he rarely bothered to think at all.

But still, he wondered. There was evidence that he _could be._

Like having long moments of utter blankness, with no recollection of what had happened.

Of hearing his friends' voices, the friends who had abandoned him.

He woke from some of these moments scratched and bruised and bloody, his own face torn and painful, his throat screamed raw, his mind racing from the horrid nightmares racing through his brain. Over and over again he was forced to relive his parents' murders, hearing his mother pleading for his life; he saw again and again Voldemort's rebirth in the graveyard; he saw his godfather Sirius falling backwards through the veil in the Department of Mysteries. He relived all the days of his condemnation into Azkaban, after being falsely accused of killing Ginny Weasley.

The only ones who even _dared_ to believe his innocence were Ron, Ginny's older brother, and Hermione Granger, his best friend, his own spiritual sister. They were the faces he focused on- the horror on Ron's face when hearing Harry's sentence, and the tears falling down Hermione's cheeks at the trial. They alone knew he was innocent- they alone had fought to keep him out of Azkaban. They would have gladly exchanged their own lives for Harry's, and for that even now he was glad. It was not a happy thought, it was a fact, a simple fact of life- that Harry Potter had two friends always at his back, keeping him going, keeping him alive. It was they who he wanted to see- to see and not kill, but to seek their help.

He would be acting soon. Very soon. Then he would seek his revenge on those who had abandoned him.

He put his plan into action only a few days later. During the day, when they weren't bothering him, the dementors were over at other cells, tormenting other prisoners. He was eternally grateful that Snape had insisted on teaching wordless magic in the Defense the Dark Arts, and for Lupin and Hermione teaching him wandless magic.

After he had been given the customary meager serving of food that the prisoners were fed, he stood and took his stand at the far wall. He knew that his cell was on the outer wall, so it would be easier to break through than if he were surrounded on all sides by other prisoners. He had to be careful, though- he didn't want to release any of the others. Although the thought of some nasty villains set loose on the wizarding world was absolutely _delicious_, he knew most were Death Eaters, and there was no way that he would allow Voldemort get any of his old followers to swell his ranks. He was not _so _insane that he thought a powerful Lord Voldemort was a good thing.

He faced his side of wall, glaring at it through his long black hair. As much as he was grateful for its solid presence, the only dependable thing he had had in this place of torment, it also stood for his prison, the thing that kept his wings clipped and unable to fly.

But today he would be free. And he would fly again, like a bird reborn from its captivity. Wasn't that a poem? He thought it was- probably something that he had heard Hermione quoted. What was the name…? Oh yes- he remembered only a bit of it- "But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams/  
His shadow shouts on a midnight scream/ His wings are clipped and his feet are tied/ So he opens his throat to sing". How ironic he found the words that so spoke of his own imprisonment! They made him laugh to himself, feeling it so much more delightful to laugh or sing than scream in his private agony.

He lifted a hand to the wall, every muscle in his body straining to do his will, to put the magic he had so obsessively hoarded to good use. There he waited, and waited, and waited… He was just beginning to think that he had failed to do anything, when suddenly with a tremendous bang that resounded amongst the many cells of the prison, he was thrown back into an opposite wall as the one before him promptly exploded outwards with the force of a bomb. When he managed to pick himself up from the floor, breathing heavily and bleeding from where he had fallen, he realized with a lightened heart that he had succeeded- he was free, he could get out. _He was free._ He could have stood there in ecstasy, in disbelief, for days and hours on end, could have laughed again, this time freely and fully like he had not done in so many years, but very quickly knew that that would not be the wisest of moves, and therefore decided to continue on. Besides, the human guards there had undoubtedly heard the sounds of him blowing a wall into his prison wall and they would come to detain him- probably even kill him, if they discovered that he had done this by himself.

Therefore, gathering himself, he took a deep breath and, turning swiftly on his heel, he Apparated away from the prison, and away from the guards that were just then running in. All they found was a dirty, blood-stained cell with a wall almost completely obliterated.

Harry Potter had escaped, and he was out for his revenge.

A/N: All right, that's it! I think you can leave this as a cliffhanger, although I am planning to add more chapters later on- after all, we've still got to find out whether Harry really is as mad as he seems, and if he really is going to go through with his whole "revenge" thing! Another small thing- the poem he recalls is called _I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings_. I love that poem, so I'll probably reference that a lot more as the story as it goes on.


End file.
